


all that blood was never once beautiful

by byronicmusings



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: A little bit of fluff, Angst, Bittersweet, Blood, Character Death, Grief/Mourning, M/M, a little too much p a i n
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-25
Updated: 2020-11-25
Packaged: 2021-03-10 07:07:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27709492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/byronicmusings/pseuds/byronicmusings
Summary: Jaskier loves the colour red.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 5
Kudos: 27





	all that blood was never once beautiful

**Author's Note:**

> I’m alive!!! Or not, because writing this killed me (emotionally). Wrote this in one sitting, with an [ethereal clair de lune](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_j2b1jpNraE&ab_channel=A.Krishna) on repeat (listening to it makes the fic more Painful), and with my pile of work judging me from its corner of the table as i pretend that i do not have to study. 
> 
> I don’t know why i wrote this because i would never, ever read a fic with major character death.
> 
> (And yet, here we are.)

Jaskier loves the color red. 

He loves the liveliness of it, how it stands out bright and strong and valiant, a dash of life and vitality in a world full of bleak greys and blacks. He sees red roses as he runs past the fields, glistening beautiful golden hues in the autumn sunset, red, vibrant streaks on both sides of his vision as he tries not to stumble on the uneven floor. Call him cliche, but he _loves_ roses, loves the sweet fresh smell of them and how the petals remind him of scales on a dragon and how if you were too caught up in their beauty you might get pricked by the thorns. _Just like you,_ he remembers Geralt saying, and Jaskier did take offence at that because he was _a total sweetheart, no thorns at all, mind you._ Geralt snorted at him, of course, and he swatted the witcher on the arm, only to find a smug expression on Geralt’s face as if to say _I told you so,_ and _fine, okay,_ maybe he did have some thorns. But not _that_ many.

The field of roses comes to an end, and he enters the forest, but no it’s not the type of forest he hates, with the trees so densely packed together you can’t see a thing in front of you. The trees are spaced out rather nicely, the canopy providing the barest of shades in the warm glow of the setting sun. There are no twigs snapping back in his face, _no_ , no need for him to duck and weave and still get smacked by a branch so bad that he would whine the whole day about the scratch on his cheek or the bruise forming on his jaw. He would exaggerate it, of course, mourn the death of his beauty and possibly hold a whole ass funeral for it later on, because _alas,_ his face was his most prized asset, and _what has he ever done to have angered the gods for them to damage it so?_

Geralt would sigh that long suffering sigh of his and slow his pace and hold the branches back for him. _Your highness,_ he would say, in that deep baritone of his - gods Jaskier _loved_ that voice - the slightest curl in his lip betraying his otherwise poker face. _Two can play at the game,_ Jaskier would think, and he would smile innocently and muster his most regal voice, _why thank you, kind sir,_ and lean forward, closing that small bit of distance between them, placing a quick peck on the witcher’s lips. 

It catches Geralt off guard, of course, it always does. It is entertaining, really, seeing the stoic witcher startle and fumble and march off afterwards, trying to maintain a semblance of, well, _stoicness_ , a pretty red blush on his cheeks. He loves seeing Geralt blush, loves seeing the dusting of color on the normally stern face - it reminds him of strawberries for some reason, perhaps it’s because the first time he saw Geralt blush was when he held his hand out and tried to feed the man a strawberry. In hindsight, he might’ve been a tad too excited - he had found a handful of juicy berries by the hill and had ran back to camp in excitement and had immediately shoved the biggest and juiciest one in Geralt’s face without any tact. He knows Geralt loves strawberries. The witcher has a surprisingly sweet tooth. 

A wolf howls somewhere in the forest, a low, mournful howl, and Jaskier sprints even faster, even though his legs are aching and his heart pounds a fast, erratic beat in his chest. It drowns out the splashes of water as he haphazardly runs through puddles on the forest floor, muddied remnants of the thunderstorm earlier in the day. Jaskier sees the bright red of his own doublet reflected in the water, glistening in the warm hues of the setting sun. It weaves in and out of his vision - shallow pools of sparkling surfaces, and at his speed it seems almost as if the water itself is a bloodied crimson. It vaguely reminds him of the wine they had a few nights back - Geralt had gotten a bottle of his favourite _Sangreal_ from one of the merchants and they had drank till the early hours of the morning in a blessed haze of contentment and satisfaction. He remembers the pleasant warmth in his belly, the half lidded sighs and alcohol tinged kisses, soft and sweet and all he could ever hope for in a shitty inn with a shitty mattress.

He almost trips on a stray branch, but catches himself just in time. The forest is denser now, the trees crowding around him just a little closer, and it is darker, only a fraction of the sun peeking through stubbornly through the broken canopy. A chill wind blows past, and Jaskier suppresses a shudder as goosebumps appear on his skin. 

“Geralt!” He calls, frantically, and waits. His voice echoes in the sudden silence of the forest, and for the first time Jaskier worries about the beasts lurking in the trees, about his lack of a weapon save for the dagger in his belt. 

There is no reply. 

The last of the sun’s golden rays disappears beyond the thickening canopy, replaced instead by a desolate greyness, settling over the trees like a blanket dousing a flame. _Breathe,_ Jaskier tells himself, swallowing the lump in his throat, the anxiety welling up in his chest. _He has to be here somewhere._

He steps forward, wincing as his boots crunch audibly on the fallen leaves on the floor. He pauses, whipping his head around for fear of attracting predators, or worse. Silence. There are no crickets in this part of the forest, strangely, the only thing he can hear is his own laboured breathing and the occasional whisper of wind. _Fuck it._ “Geralt!” He calls into the forest, because he cannot stand the silence, no, cannot stand to be alone with his claustrophobic thoughts and the possibilities of what could have been. His own echo answers him, seemingly mocking his own isolation, the echoes growing increasingly distorted as his voice travels further away. He scans his surroundings for a sign, but the trees stare back at him blankly, so he walks around scanning the ground and tries to look for any disturbances, footprints, anything - 

He finds a drop of blood, crimson red against the dried brown leaves on the floor. 

_Oh fuck._

Another drop, a few paces away. 

He follows the drop and finds a trail of blood, stark red in the bleakness of the forest, and it’s almost like a path opened up to him, like those stories meant to scare children from going into the forest, because they will find a sweet on the floor, and when they look up a trail of sweets will appear before them, and they will follow it and find a witch that lives at the end and she will eat them. He follows the trail on shaky legs - the small, innocent drops turn into bigger, worrying drops, which turn into violent splatters, which turn into puddles, and by the time it becomes one long unbroken trail of blood, Jaskier sees a body crumpled face-down on the ground, as still as the dead leaves and branches surrounding him, his blood turns to ice in his veins. 

“Geralt!” He rushes forward, stumbling towards the body. “Geralt? Can you hear me? Oh God -”

He turns Geralt over gently and recoils at the damage done because it’s a wreck, a ruin, his front is soaked with blood, there is a huge wound in his chest and claw marks slashed across streaks of puckering flesh, red angry streaks marr the pale skin beneath and it’s too much, its just _too much_ \- “Oh God, _fuck,_ Geralt -” 

“-s..kier” Geralt’s eyelids flutter open and he coughs weakly, _too weak_ \- Jaskier’s heart wrenches at the sight. “Geralt,” it’s all Jaskier can say, shakily, even though he is near bursting with words - _why didn’t you wait for me, I told you to wait, we could’ve done this together -_ but his tongue is heavy and he tastes ash and blood and nothing else comes out. 

“I-” Geralt tries again, and he’s heaving for breath, his whole body shuddering, as if that one word has taken all of his strength. His fingers twitch.

Jaskier notices and reaches for his hand, slick with blood, _too much blood_. “It’s- it’s going to be okay, love, it’s going to be okay,” Jaskier takes in the damage, tries to formulate a _plan,_ _something, anything,_ but panic wells up in his chest because there is red, _too much red_ and he doesn’t know where to start. “I just need to- I just-”

“No,” Geralt barely manages to shake his head, wincing painfully. “I-” he swallows audibly, speaking slowly through gritted teeth. “I love y-”

“Don’t you dare finish that sentence, Geralt of Rivia.” Jaskier cuts in, voice stern, and his vision blurs before he realizes he is crying. “No. You’re not going to die here, don’t-”

But Geralt doesn’t listen to him, no, _he never does,_ _because he is stubborn just like that,_ and Jaskier knows it, knows deep down that it is _coming_ , _its done,_ _its finished, nearly finished, already finished,_ his life has crashed and wrecked and there’s nothing left to do but collect the broken pieces. 

So he watches on as the light vanishes from Geralt’s eyes, as the golden hues grow distant and his hand grows limp and “...Geralt?” Jaskier’s voice breaks and his heart breaks too because “You can’t do this to me, Geralt, you- you promised you would always be by my side and-” Jaskier babbles, clutching Geralt’s broken body, as the blood from Geralt’s wounds seeps into his own clothing. “You can’t-” he buries his face in the crook of Geralt’s neck, as his soft, white hair tickles the side of his face - just like how it did this morning when the sun was rising and a sleepy witcher was lightly snoring into his chest and the pillows were soft and life was _beautiful_ and everything was _okay_. The tears start to fall because this isn’t how it is supposed to end, no, not like this, _not like this-_ but Geralt doesn’t move no matter how much he calls his name.

_Red is a beautiful colour,_ Jaskier thinks, as he kneels on the hard forest floor with the dead weight of Gerat across his lap, remembering the first time Geralt shyly presented him with a bouquet of half crushed roses hidden badly behind his back and oh they were _beautiful,_ _aren’t they beautiful Geralt?_ _Yes,_ Geralt had said, and Jaskier had looked up to see him gazing at him with such open adoration in his eyes, and _oh,_ Jaskier had thought, as he reached for honeyed pools of gold, as he dived in and welcomed that enveloping warmth and comfort and _oh I’m in deep -_

_Red is a beautiful colour,_ Jaskier thinks, as he rocks a lifeless Geralt in his arms and sobs into his chest, fragments of memories of tart berries and blushes and picnics under the warm afternoon sun flash through his mind, the timid glances and lingering touches, strawberry juice on his fingers and _oh the sunlit kisses -_

_Red is a beautiful colour,_ Jaskier thinks, as he cries out for someone that will never reply, as he remembers the first time Geralt drunkenly confessed to him, staring up at him with golden eyes, sloshing a glass of wine in his hand. _I’m drunk,_ Geralt had announced gravely, and Jaskier snorted because _yes, I can see that-_ and Geralt shook his head - _with you,_ he added, and Jaskier didn’t get it until Geralt stood up and strode towards him, _I’m drunk with you because you intoxicate me_ and oh well _isn’t that corny_ , but he was drunk too and who was he to judge when he felt the same way - 

  
  


_Red is a beautiful colour,_ yet - 

  
  
  


_Red is-_

  
  
  


_Red-_

  
  
  


Is all he can see now, matted in Geralt’s hair, streaming down the side of his face, soaking his armour, staining his own doublet, red, red, _red, the colour of life, of roses and strawberries and wine and love and- death. Of you sitting in a pool of your lover’s blood. Of the tears that stream down your face as your heart cracks and tears open and bleeds and bleeds and bleeds some more as all the colour and meaning drains from your life. Roses are red and violets are blue - that’s poetry, isn’t it? Something ends and we turn it into poetry, pack ugly truths into pretty packaging, look at you wearing your lover’s blood on your sleeves and crying crimson tears, as your memories are the only thing left of all those years. Is it still beautiful?_

  
  


_No,_ Jaskier cries, as the sky goes dark, as the blackness of night falls upon the forest.

  
  


_All that blood was never once beautiful. It was just red._

**Author's Note:**

> _"Nothing ever ends poetically. It ends and we turn it into poetry. All that blood was never once beautiful. It was just red." - Kait Rokowski_


End file.
